Realizations
by ancslove
Summary: Sometimes, even the strongest need support. A late-night incident leads to a quiet revelation. Minor violence and forced kiss, but nothing graphic.


It had been a most productive meeting. The other group had a man inside the court system - some friend of a friend who worked as a clerk - and had promised to not only supply Les Amis with half a dozen guns, but also to pass along any pertinent information from the court. Bahorel and Enjolras had spent a pleasant evening discussing plans over ale and cards (all to keep up appearances, of course), but the hour was late by the time they left the cafe. So late, that Bahorel, whose room was closer, had managed to convince Enjolras to stay the night with him, rather than risk traversing the city alone in the middle of the night.

They passed through the back alleys in comfortable silence, mulling over the day's events. Well, Enjolras was probably mulling productively, Bahorel was more thinking about a whiskey nightcap and a semi-warm bed.

"Pretty. Could be a girl, pretty as that. You a dressed-up girl? Here monsieur, lemme have her for an hour, then I'll give her back." The voice, harsh and smoky, broke the night's silence, and was soon followed by a man lurching away from the mouth of the alley, blocking their path with his considerable bulk. Bahorel shifted his stance, ready for a fight, but Enjolras did not react at all, never breaking his stride. Enjolras stalked past, but suddenly the man was there, stinking of drink and moving with surprising speed and agility. Shouldering the shocked Bahorel aside, he threw Enjolras into the wall and pinned him in place, mouth descending to cover Enjolras' in a sloppily loud kiss. Even before Bahorel could drag the man off and pummel him, Enjolras slipped sideways out of his assailant's grasp. In a move too fast for Bahorel to fully follow, Enjolras crooked his leg around the man's and pulled, dumping the drunk on the ground. Wiping his mouth, Enjolras fixed the offender with a baleful stare.

"Sleep it off. And tomorrow, do something worthwhile with your life."

"Nicely done," Bahorel complimented. "Let's get out of here."

They made their way home quickly and without further incident. Every so often, Bahorel would glance covertly at his friend, but Enjolras' steady composure never faltered. Once home, Bahorel lit a lamp and then fished out a glass and a bottle of whiskey. It had been a long night, and a little fortification was needed. When he turned, Enjolras had settled in an armchair, staring absently into the flame.

Clearing his throat, Bahorel asked as matter-of-factly as he could, "Did he hurt you?"

"Hm? No, I'm fine."

Bahorel knelt in front of him, balancing his whiskey glass on his knee. "You sure? No scrapes?" he couldn't help asking.

Enjolras nodded pensively, then glanced up at him with questioning eyes. "What's wrong?" Bahorel pressed. Enjolras hesitated, clearly torn, and Bahorel reached for his hand.

The blood rushed to his cheeks, and Enjolras ducked his head to let his hair shield his face. Into his knee, he mumbled, "Nothing, nothing's wrong."

Confused and admittedly intrigued, Bahorel reached out to smooth the blond hair. "You can tell me."

Enjolras was silent for a few minutes, but his shoulders slowly relaxed under Bahorel's touch. Finally, his head lifted. "That man tonight was not the first to voice such sentiment. Nor was he the first to believe that holding that opinion gives him the right to take what he wants. They comment and stare and try to touch, with no regard for anything I say or do." Dropping his gaze again, Enjolras gave a small shrug, looking suddenly worn.

"I had no idea you even noticed. You usually look past anyone who tries to approach you. Has - has anyone ever hurt you?"

"I can protect myself. And I endeavor not to pay them more thought or attention than they deserve, but." A soft sigh, then very quietly, "It's wearying, sometimes."

Bahorel continued to stroke his friend's hair, as he cast his mind back over the past few weeks. Grisettes and even a few, usually tipsy, young men approaching Enjolras hopefully or commenting on his extraordinary beauty were hardly uncommon. Even Grantaire would stare at him for hours when he thought no one was noticing, and their other friends would tease that such heavensent good looks had gone to the one being in Paris who could least appreciate it, and speculate on just what attractions could win their leader's attention . Enjolras bore it all without remark, never acknowledging any of it, but clearly the attention he received, unwillingly, did affect him. At least on occasion.

Bahorel gave himself a mental shake. Such musings were more beneficial to Enjolras or Jehan, he always preferred some kind of action. He rubbed Enjolras' back soothingly, trying to ease comfort into the tight muscles and tired mind.

"You're beautiful. But that doesn't give anyone the right to impose on you. Protest it, and not just when things get violent. You deserve better than that. Never think that you have to endure behavior that makes you uncomfortable. Even from us." He tilted Enjolras' chin up to look into his eyes, "Especially from us. Come on, then. It's late, and Combeferre will shoot me if he finds out that I've kept you up all night."

Enjolras smiled, "Thank you, my friend."

Pulling Enjolras to his feet, Bahorel led the way to the bedroom, the whiskey glass forgotten on the floor. Enjolras leaned against him, unprotesting, eyes already half closed. Once situated on the bed, he removed first his shoes, then Enjolras', then pulled Enjolras into a loose embrace.

Soon, Enjolras was asleep, head pillowed on Bahorel's chest. Bahorel stayed awake long after, fingers carding affectionately through Enjolras' hair.


End file.
